


What the Dormouse Said

by DragoJustine



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-03
Updated: 2010-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:10:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragoJustine/pseuds/DragoJustine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy actually really likes red eye flights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What the Dormouse Said

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hilarytamar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hilarytamar/gifts).



> Inspired by Adam drunk-tweeting on a plane. For Hilarytamar, who I owe for about a million reasons this week.

Tommy decided about four months into this new gig that he likes red-eye flights. He knows it's weird; LP has said so, loudly and at length, while explaining to him everything that is bad and wrong and possibly cruel and unusual about the practice. 

Before Adam, Tommy had never flown red-eye (and had never been on a flight more than five hours long, and had never been more than three time zones away from California, and had never flown first class, and sometimes he hears someone say something like "how are you enjoying Helsinki?" and wonders when his life turned into some kind of fucking exotic travel novel, but he just tries to shrug those moments off without making some sort of drama out of them. Before Adam he couldn't have told you what _continent_ Helsinki was on, so obviously this gig is actually educational, not just educational in the dirty sense). 

It's not like you can get a solid night's sleep on a plane, but sleeping at all is better than trying to stave off hours of boredom with nothing but a Nintendo DS. Plus airplanes go strange and surreal when the cabin lights go off, like they aren't even part of the human world at all any more, all disconnected and dream-feeling, like you're more likely to land at Never Never Land or on the moon than in JFK and that's fine because the hum of the engine is just so soothing. 

The only flaw in Tommy's 'late night flights for sleep and profit' plan is Adam himself. 

Adam decided somehow, at some formative stage of his development that Tommy wasn't there for but will absolutely go back to and change if he ever gets a time machine, that flights are for socializing. So three hours ago they were live on stage in the afternoon in California, and in five hours they're going to touch down in New York, and three hours after that they'll be live on some morning show there, and Tommy doesn't even want to do the math on that, and Adam is talking about theater friends the band should meet and maybe scoring tickets to Fela!

"Adam," Tommy says, giving his carry-on a vicious little kick, "this is me, _sleeping_." 

"It's barely nine, baby," Adam says, like he can't even comprehend why Tommy would be so unreasonable.

Tommy quite pointedly pulls the shade down over his window and cuddles a little against the curved wall, like maybe cold-shoulder body language will get the message across. He's so busy cold-shouldering that he doesn't see Adam half stand up to hang over the seats in front of them, just hears him ask "Monte? Monte, if Lane gets tickets do you--"

If it were anyone else, Tommy would suspect that Monte's giant snore was a little bit fake. Monte sleeps anywhere, though, and he really does snore that loud, so maybe. 

Tommy squirms a little, because trying to sleep against the plane wall is really not going to work for him and he needs something to lie on. Maybe the jacket he stashed in the overhead but he'd have to wake up properly to get it, and the plane vibrations have just started to sink in and mellow him out. He shrugs out of his hoodie and balls it up and hopes he doesn't get too cold. 

When Tommy comes awake, Adam is saying, "It's _New York_ ," and sounding completely miserable. "I know we've all been before, but you couldn't be just a little excited? Are you that jaded?" 

"Ask Cam. Maybe she's excited," LP says.

"I can't. She's hiding from me." 

(It's true. Cam had marched up to the ticket counter and asked to swap her first-class seat for coach. "I love you, babe," she said, patting Adam's cheek, "but I won't fly within ten rows of you." Her third flight with the band and she was already smarter than the rest of them put together.) 

Tommy realizes, dim and muzzy through the hypnotic rumble of the engine, that his jacket is over his lap and tucked in neatly under the armrests, then he's asleep again. 

Next time Tommy wakes, Adam's tray table is down and holding two empty plastic cups. The edge nearest Tommy is neatly lined with a Sprite-no-ice, a mini bottle of water, and a pack of peanuts. Adam is leaning across the aisle describing what it was like to record with Lady GaGa and scribbling an autograph on some woman's napkin. 

The guy sitting behind him must have seen Tommy move, because he leans forward and says, "Excuse me, but do you think you could quiet your friend down?" 

"Do I look like I have superpowers or something?" Tommy mumbles, and then feels bad, but the guy has already leaned back and probably didn't even hear. Tommy fumbles out a hand and drains the Sprite, then shuts out the sound of Adam's voice and focuses on the engine hum pulling him back under. 

The next thing he hears is LP saying, just a little too loudly, "I will not rate the flight attendant's ass, Adam. We have an _arrangement_." They do, but it looks like Adam has finished his third vodka cranberry and-- Tommy leans around as casually as he possibly can, which is not very casually at all-- the guy really does have a good ass. 

"See! Tommy thinks so too!" Adam says. LP makes a soundtrack-to-justifiable-homicide noise and a tiny foam pillow comes sailing over LP's seatback and bounces off Tommy's shoulder into the seat behind him. 

"What are you doing?" Tommy asks, because Adam is fiddling with something suspicious under the shadow of his tray table. It's his iPhone, and Tommy thinks through his sleep-haze _three vodka cranberries_ and _flight attendant's ass_ and _dammit_ and makes a grab for it. "Shit, man, Lane gave you orders about drunk Tweeting." 

"You can't even use your cell on a plane, you juvenile delinquent," LP says, and another pillow sails toward Adam's head. 

It misses high and lands in the seat behind Tommy with the first one, and the poor dude behind them says "Okay, seriously boys--" like he might get no-kidding angry any second. Then Tommy gets the iPhone away from Adam and sees the time on it, and shit, they're back on stage in six hours and Adam hasn't even napped yet. This needs to stop. 

The iPhone joins Tommy's sunglasses and DS in the seatback pocket, and then Tommy scrounges in his carry-on for a minute, cracks the seal on the water battle and swishes his mouth out, and unbuckles his seat belt. "Stand up," he orders Adam. "Come on." 

Tommy squirms his way out into the aisle, pausing to throw a "Sorry, dude," at the guy with their pillows. He heads up the aisle toward the restroom, feeling strange and lightheaded, like he's sleepwalking. He's two rows up before he realizes Adam isn't following. Tommy turns around to see Adam twisting back down, ducking low for his pompadour to clear the overhead bin.

God, the lines of him are so long, back of his neck to his shoulder to his side, over his ass to his thigh, all scrunched up uncomfortable in the tiny space of the seat, too big to be contained. Adam leans forward over the top of LP's head, saying "I don't think I can get your pillows back, man, he looks pretty pissed." He's bright-eyed and alert, like he's the only real live person in this tin can miles in the air in the dark. 

Tommy reaches back to pluck at Adam's shirt, suddenly struck dumb with a want that slices through his fogginess. The little tug makes Adam turn, unfolding himself back into the aisle. "Oh," he says, smile going dark and pleased at what he sees on Tommy's face.

They pile into the restroom together with no regard for discretion. Tommy catches a glimpse of nice-ass flight attendant eyeing him with a look that might have been jealousy and might have been gratitude-- Tommy doesn't care, he's part of the faraway not-real beyond Adam, and then they get the door closed. 

The restroom is tiny, lit with a harsh florescent that feels just as surreal as the dim cabin lighting. They're crammed together, Adam flattened against the wall and Tommy wedged against the counter, edge of it bruising his tailbone. Adam is warm against him and Tommy writhes, rubbing up sensuously, feeling the shape of Adam's hips and the buttons on his clothes and the start of his hard-on. He reaches up to twine his arms around Adam's neck, pushing up on his toes, _more more more._

"You have such good ideas, baby," Adam says, cupping Tommy's face in his hands and dropping light kisses over his jaw and up to his mouth. He wraps Tommy's bangs around three fingers and tugs and Tommy goes with it, moaning as his head tips sideways and Adam's other hand strokes his throat. "What brought this on?"

"You're a fucking lunatic and you're driving everyone crazy and you need to sleep or else LP will murder you," Tommy says, but he can't make it come out gruff or annoyed, just shaky and pleading. "And I'll help," he adds, aiming for a smirk that he has no chance of hitting, not when Adam rubs his nipple through his shirt and bites down, sharp demanding nip on his lower lip. 

Tommy pulls his lotion out of his pocket with one hand and tries to get the other hand between them to undo Adam's belt. Being shoved up this close against Adam is great, it's perfect, it's making his nerves sizzle and his breath catch, but they're actually pressed too close to even get pants unzipped, and Tommy's brain is swamped under too much haze to figure out what to do about that. 

"That won't work, baby, come up here," Adam mumbles against Tommy's cheek. Then Adam's hands, fucking huge hands, are under Tommy's ass and Adam lifts him, quick little heft up onto the counter. For a second Tommy doesn't even know what happened, just shakes with that fucking _zing_ he gets whenever Adam manhandles him. Which must be obvious, because Adam just _takes_ his mouth, hard and thrusting and possessive. 

There's absolutely no space to sit on the little ledge and Tommy is half in the sink, but this works, this is better, because now they're nearly the same height and there's room to open belts and jeans and shove aside underwear, and their dicks line up perfectly. Tommy stifles his noises in the crook of Adam's neck as Adam strokes, a light dry slide. 

Tommy's head is still messed up, all floaty dreamtime from the hour and the plane and the nap. His body feels insubstantial, hollow, like if Adam is the only real thing on the plane then maybe Tommy's only real where he's touching Adam: the insides of his thighs, his chest, his forearms over Adam's shoulders, his lips on Adam's neck, his dick sliding against the gorgeous velvet of Adam's dick, blazing points of existence. 

Adam's hand is good but it's not enough, so Tommy grabs him around the wrist and squeezes some hand lotion into his palm. Adam stares. "Is that _Jergens_?"

"Shut up," Tommy says. 

"You are such a straight boy." 

"If you tell me you have lube in your carry on, I'll laugh at you so hard."

"Our dicks are gonna smell like old-lady almond," Adam says, morose except Tommy knows he's fighting back giggles. 

"Just make me fucking come already," Tommy says, and wraps his legs around Adam as best he can, heels pushing the back of Adam's thighs to get him closer.

Adam doesn't rush him, doesn't turn his strokes urgent. He just keeps up that same steady slide, slicker and a little firmer now. Every stroke winds the tension inside Tommy's skin a little tighter, until Tommy starts straining upwards.

Adam puts his left hand over Tommy's collarbones, pinning him back against the mirror, a firm pressure not quite on his neck that holds him together while Adam's other hand takes him apart. He's making little soothing shushing noises in Tommy's ear while his hand keeps moving, relentless. 

When Tommy comes it's like some dream explosion, sunspots behind his eyelids and the whole world tilting crazily. Adam's mouth covers his, stealing away his shout, and Adam holds him up, somehow keeps him steady while everything flies apart. Then Adam is coming too, twitching and shuddering and kissing him, kisses turned uncoordinated and sloppy and desperate like they always do when he comes. 

Tommy's barely even there for the walk back to their seats. He blinks and Adam is cleaning him up with a tissue; blinks again and Adam is steering him down the aisle, one hand on his shoulder blade; blinks again and Adam is raising the armrest between them, tugging Tommy a little closer and spreading out his jacket. They're half-spooned, Tommy's back curled into Adam's side, and Adam isn't asleep but he is still and peaceful, his breath coming steady and reassuring against Tommy's hair. 

_I totally do have superpowers_ , Tommy thinks, and blinks again.

Through the window he can see the wings, glistening silver in the starlight. But then the giant bird flaps, and the wings are covered in feathers of glittering green. Below them the Earth falls away, and then it splits open and out pours a stream of glitter and fire.

They land somewhere else, some other place entirely, surrounded by trees so big Tommy couldn't put his arms around them, trunks made of stone and branches arching like a cathedral. The whole place thrums with a deep, silent vibration, and the hush is almost sacred.

But there in a clearing is Adam, wearing shimmering green wings and dancing with the forest animals, lithe beautiful creatures in leather and headdresses. There's fire flickering around Adam's head and he's singing, wild and joyful, shattering the quiet. 

Tommy reaches out a hand to try to silence him, to protect that heavy, sleepy hush, but his hand brushes the trunk of a tree and he realizes the forest isn't vibrating, it's _singing_ \--

He opens his eyes. The lights are up and the aisle is crowded with people. Adam leans over him and takes his jacket and the gadgets and sunglasses from his seat pocket. "Rise and shine," Adam says, a gentle murmur against his hair, and then Adam is tugged away by the steady flow of people heading for the plane door while Tommy claws his way back to consciousness.

They're waiting for him just off the jetway. Camilla and Monte are yawning and stretching like bears coming out in spring. Tommy catches the end of something between Adam and LP, as LP claps Adam's shoulder and says, "Don't worry about it. Next time we'll just drug you."

Adam holds out Tommy's jacket and sunglasses and asks, "Did you have bad dreams?"

"Fucking trippy _awesome_ dreams," Tommy says, fixing his collar.

"You okay to play?" Adam sounds maybe honestly worried, and Tommy wonders just how fucking weird he was acting on the plane anyway. The memory is getting dim and fuzzy; Tommy thinks LP threw pillows, and he thinks Adam jerked him off in the bathroom. Then again, he also thinks he rode a giant bird to a singing forest on Mars, so fuck Adams' recent obsession with psychedelic production design anyway. 

He pauses to think before he answers, rolling his shoulders and really taking stock. He's loose in every muscle, relaxed right down to his core. The sex in the bathroom had to have been real; it's the only way he could feel this good. But JFK is just as dirty and dingy as he remembers, and he's surrounded by people shoving past him on their way out of the gate, and Adam isn't any more real than any of them (just taller, and with more hair gel). 

"Good to play," he agrees. 

Adam beams and slides on his shades, looking very rockstar at six in the morning, and the band follows him away from the gate.


End file.
